Give In
by Kyra Z Bane
Summary: Serial Killer!AU; The Hawk makes a decision: he won't kill anyone else until Phil invites him back to his apartment. (M/M) Part two of the 'My Life in Your Hands' series.


The Hawk returned to his nest, scaling the building and climbing noiselessly through the window. The locks slid into place with a dull thud and he shrugged off the tension in his shoulders, sure that he hadn't been followed.

Clint wandered over to the kitchen, feet feather-light on the creaky old floor. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and opened it with a twist of his wrist, collapsing into a chair as he took a swig.

_What were you thinking, kid?_

He didn't know – and that was the truth of it. He'd meant to have a quick look through the cop's files, just to check they'd got nothing on him, but he'd heard him move, and then-

Clint hadn't been lying when he'd said that he'd seen the way Phil moved in that suit. It had been, to use a word, _incredible._

To use another, it had also been entirely false.

Clint took a few more gulps of cold beer, peeling the label off the bottle as he thought. The Widow had been an interesting specimen – he'd heard she'd grown up a bit like he had; had been trained for something _more_. He'd followed her and, in a cruel twist of fate, it had turned out to be the night Phil stumbled across her lair.

Only, Clint had heard the orders, perched on the roof as he had been. She was in the warehouse, carving up some asshole or other – and Clint had heard it, plain as day.

_"Don't worry about bringing her in alive."_

Clint had known what that meant; hell, he'd heard it enough in relation to himself and his-

He knew. By all rights, Phil should have gone in and killed her. Especially after she incapacitated his partner – suddenly it was only her and Phil and Clint had found himself riveted, skulking around the dark corners of the building to watch.

He'd had a shot. The Widow had stopped, her face, as ever, expressionless. Clint could practically taste it; she knew it was done and she was going to face it down.

Phil had looked at her. He'd looked into her eyes and seen how young – and how broken? – she was.

He didn't take the shot.

And God, but that had intrigued and terrified Clint in equal turns. He tasted adrenalin on his tongue when the Widow moved, landing a kick that Clint was sure broke two of Phil's ribs. There had been a moment where Clint was positive he was going to jump down and join in – though he wasn't sure on whose side – but even after a nasty whack to the head, Phil had managed to take her down and had cuffed her just as the other officers swarmed in.

They couldn't kill her now and Clint was sure he saw some kind of quiet triumph in Phil's tired features. His eyes had tracked the cop out of the warehouse and into the ambulance and it was only then that Clint had taken off, his interest piqued in a way it hadn't been in years.

Clint drew himself out of his reminiscing with the sudden realisation that he was rubbing his erection through his jeans, still half-hard after his little stunt earlier. He rolled his neck a couple of times, then decided to hell with it and flicked open the button, the slide of the zipper loud in the silence of his apartment.

He drew his cock out carefully and it only took the thought of Phil's face when he came and a couple of strokes before he went from half-hard to fully, hissing a breath out between his teeth. Oh, but he'd given up so prettily, so _easily_ and though normally Clint liked the chase, to have someone give themselves over like that it was, well-

_Hot._ Amongst other things, some of them Clint couldn't even name but that made his heart race, made him groan aloud even though he was usually so careful about that sort of thing. Clint remembered the taste of him, the surrender of his mouth and he stroked and twisted his wrist, just a little – and came with a cry, spilling all over his hand.

One of the neighbours below shouted and slammed what sounded like a broom handle against the ceiling. Clint laughed, uncaring.

He cleaned up and crawled into bed as the sun was just starting to peek over the horizon. Just before he drifted off to sleep, Clint glanced over at his quiver, sitting innocuously in the corner, and made a decision.

_I won't use another arrow,_ he thought, _Not until he uses his._

* * *

Coulson, of course, had no idea of the decision the man he was referring to in his head as 'the stalker' (because if he didn't admit it to himself, if he didn't put the dots together in any active way after that night, then he didn't have to tell Fury what had happened) had made and went into work the next day feeling, if anything, even more exhausted than when Fury had sent him home.

"What's wrong with you?" Hill asked, her face twisted in concern. "You still look beat."

Coulson shrugged. "Couldn't stop thinking about the case, I guess."

She was on the case with him, so he got what he wanted – a sympathetic nod and a complete lack of questioning. Though, if Hill was noticing, Coulson knew he'd have to step it up and try to look a little more rested. Fury wouldn't be put off so easily.

The man in question popped by for a visit a little later, when Coulson was looking over the final coroner's report for their last victim. It wasn't revealing anything new, but if he made himself focus then he didn't think about his stalker and the guilt weighing in his gut.

"You well rested, Coulson?" Fury asked and Coulson felt the guilt spread, almost paralyzing him in place. There had to be another victim.

"Yes, sir," Coulson replied. He waited for the statement, but it never came.

Fury stared at him for a long moment, his one good eye piercing. "Good," he said and moved on, probably to terrorize some rookie.

When Coulson was sure Fury was out of earshot, he let out a shaky breath and flattened his palms on his desk. Fury knew, Fury _had to know_ and Coulson was going to get fired and arrested and _God only knows what else-_

"Lunch, Coulson?" Hill asked, leaning her hip against the desk. If she noticed Coulson's inner turmoil, this time, she didn't mention it.

"Yeah," Coulson said. Normal. He could do normal.

* * *

Clint shadowed Phil for three days, his frustration growing with each one. Really, he should have known that the cop would have a lot of willpower, but this was pushing it.

Clint had never been known for his patience.

Even now, as he watched Phil from the building opposite, he could feel his frustration grow. It was a combination of wanting to take Phil apart from the inside out, make him absolutely, _utterly_ belong to Clint – and the rather more simple feeling of wanting to bend Phil over the nearest surface and make him scream Clint's name.

The first one came more into play whenever Phil interacted with the pretty brunette in his department – Hill, Clint thought her name was – the second just being present the _entire rest of the time._

This was really beginning to get out of control, only the wrong way around.

_You think, kid? You might have bitten off more than you can chew. Just come ba-_

Clint shook his head. He could wait. He had promised himself – and he was proud of his skills; his silence, his steadiness, his patience when hunting.

_This is just another hunt,_ he told himself – with an equally satisfying ending, if Phil would just give in.

Daylight broke and Clint headed back to his apartment.

* * *

It was when Fury said that they'd have to shift departmental resources to other cases that Coulson realised it. It had been sixteen days since the Hawk had last killed anyone and they still had no more to go on than they had then.

Coulson swallowed reflexively when he realised it had been two weeks since his stalker had visited him in his apartment.

Had someone followed him from there? Did someone know? More likely, had the Ha- had his stalker run into trouble on the way home? There was a flare of worry in Coulson's stomach and he felt suddenly, violently ill. What was _wrong _with him? Better yet, who _did_ this? Who succumbed completely to a man half-hidden in shadows, a man they knew to have killed five innocent women?

Hill frowned at him from the side of his desk and Coulson didn't even think about when she'd arrived; he was too involved in his own thoughts.

She stared at him for a few moments. "Phil, you look like someone just died. You okay? Maybe you should take a day?"

Coulson shook his head. "I'll be fine," he said, though it came out scratchy and hoarse.

"Take the goddamn day off," Fury said, appearing to Hill's right. He frowned, peering at Coulson's face. "Take the rest of the week, actually," he said, voice almost softening. "Come back on Monday."

It was Wednesday. Coulson balked at the prospect of four days in his apartment, with only his thoughts to keep him company. He'd end up confessing before the weekend was up, he was sure of it.

Still, there was nothing to be done, not when Fury was wearing _that _expression, the one that was almost like concern except not really because they were all pretty sure Fury didn't know what concern _was._

"I'll see you on Monday," Coulson said instead and resigned himself to his fate.

* * *

When Phil didn't go out to work on Thursday morning, Clint frowned, squinting into the apartment. His hands itched and he wanted, more than anything, to be holding his bow.

His quiver had stared at him reproachfully when he'd left last night. Well, not really, but Clint liked to imagine that it had. He felt like he was getting rusty, like his muscles were atrophying because of his refusal to go out, to hunt.

He knew he'd be fine. Phil was so close to cracking; Clint could read that haunted look in his eyes. Still, he wasn't far off himself.

Clint crouched and curled his hands into fists. Phil was sitting on the couch and the TV was on, but every so often there was a micro-expression of guilt, or concern, or fear.

Clint allowed himself a grin, anticipation thrumming through his veins. Oh yes, Phil was going to give in. Soon.

* * *

Friday night, Coulson opened the drawer next to his bed and saw it – the arrow his stalker had pressed against his throat. Absentmindedly he walked into the bathroom, rubbing the spot the metal had touched. There was no mark there, but he still examined it before he got ready for bed.

He walked back into the bedroom and looked at the arrow again. Coulson reached into the drawer and picked it up, curling his fingers around the cool wood.

Could he do this?

Better yet, did he _want _this?

_Yes,_ some traitorous part of his mind supplied.

Coulson put the arrow on the window sill and turned his back on it immediately, dragging off his t-shirt and climbing into bed.

* * *

Across the street, Clint stood, a grin unfurling across his face.

Oh, _yes._


End file.
